Words Made to Order
by TeaLogic
Summary: Drabble & Character Death. A few hours to go, and Holmes needs to find something that will show the world exactly what John Watson was.


My first Sherlock fic, and I am extremely nervous! Please, if you see any errors or anything that is in need of critique do not hesitate to tell me. =)

A quick drabble, contains character death.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes, that clever world belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

* * *

**Words Made To Order**

Books, journals and countless papers hit the floor, making all sorts of thuds and bangs and other heavy noises. Mrs Hudson on the lower floor can only stare at the ceiling, heart filled with sadness and longing and wonder at what the service will bring.

Holmes is once again making a personal hurricane; however, this is no organised hurricane, unlike his previous ones. Objects are making contact with the floor with twice as much force. There is no random muttering from the dangerously thin and pale man as he pulls off the shelves anything that contains handwritten words, showing that he is truly unsure of where to look, and that he is focusing with every inch of brainpower that he has.

He hates the silence. Something he once said was an admirable trait in a companion. Now he hates it. It is truly a silence; there is no longer the other physical being to fill the painful gap. _And this, horrible, awful feeling. _He's in a personal agony. _Over so many things._ But right now, he's mentally degrading himself for pulling apart his dear friend's room at an ungodly hour of the night. Dull grey eyes skim over neat text, hoping that a line or paragraph will scream out to him and tell him that it is entirely the right thing to say... he picks up another set of papers.

God, who knew that Watson wrote so much? When did he ever have the time? Holmes was forever dragging him away on cases and in his spare time he picked up shifts at the hospital. Once upon a time, he was even a husband. How come there were so many notes on so many cases?

And why so much about him, Sherlock Holmes, for heaven's sake! He skims the descriptions of him. _Romantic memoirs indeed_. No wonder he was so popular with the public, Watson had that unfailing ability to make him likeable. And why? Well, that was yet a three pipe problem that was waiting to be exercised. No doubt that he would now have the time after the- the _funeral._

He implored himself not to think of the funeral. Yet, here he was, going through Watson's personal things, looking for something, anything of written form that was adequate and appropriate to read aloud and to what it would seem quite a large audience. The idea that a substantial number of people would attend the event did not seem so ridiculous after a short think. Of course they would be there. All of them. He makes a mental list: _Mary's family, his colleagues at the hospitals, the entire London detective force, Mycroft, Sir Henry, patients he has treated, the Irregulars and the poor heartbroken woman on the floor below him._

_And Sherlock Holmes._ Something inside feels the need to shout this at him. _Can't forget him._

Why he ever suggested reading something at the service, god only knows. He can't write to save his skin. He doesn't read, and when he does, he analyses. That's all he ever does, all he ever will do. _Analyse, analyse, analyse-_

But this time there is _nothing_ to analyse. He knows exactly what he wants. He wants a _Watson-ish _paragraph. Pawky, warming, friendly and full of _Watson_.

There's a leather bound journal that he's currently flicking through. A personal diary. The dates are jumping out at him, telling to take notice of their importance, but he continues to fluidly turn the pages.

He does stop at the right time though. _It's the date._

Grey eyes spark at the recognition of the date, nervously, he begins to read...

_I must write this in haste, as today is the day I marry perhaps the most wonderful woman life has ever given me the privilege to know. For once, I am unable to describe the events that are happening inside. Pure elation is perhaps one way of describing it. _

_For yes, I am about to marry and become one half of a complete soul. But I now fully realise the power of being two halves. For years, including my time in service, I have simply been. A person living life, until the day I returned to London and met a brilliant mind who transformed me completely. A man by the name of Holmes, whose adventures and actions filled me with more joy then I can once again put into words. How can I ever thank him either, for introducing me to Mary? Sweet, kind, gentle Mary, who made me understand the full power of love and transformed me further, and will continue to do so, just as Holmes will, even if he doesn't realise it. _

_I thank God for my power of words, so that my two halves can live on forever in writing. I am one half my wife, and one half my dearest friend. Can one man be any more complete?_

_-JW _

Time seems to halt in its tracks and Holmes needs to blink several times, finding the text hard to read a second time. There really isn't any need to read it once again. His frozen heart is now hotly beating in his chest, his mind doing endless cartwheels, his hands loosening their grip on the heavy journal. _He's there_; as if Watson himself entered the room and scrawled the words across the page whilst Holmes had his back turned. None of _this, _this heavy, heart crushing ache matters. Not at the moment anyway.

The first specks of dawn peek through the dark curtains. He fights down an unusual feeling of joy. He's found it. _Yes, he's found it!_

* * *

_The funeral is a quiet, heavy affair. That is until Holmes takes the stage. Suddenly, the mourners sit up straight and tears dry on flushed cheeks. His voice becomes louder, and it even feels like the still wind is listening to him. If Holmes was thinking straight, he might have said that the air felt lighter, and a touch warmer. Yet, he's only following the words, as if Watson is leading him by the wrist down the dark corridor of grief and proving to him that the light at the end of the tunnel is not a train. _

_When he's finished he takes his seat once again, oblivious to the awed stares around him. He takes the torn paper and turns it absentmindedly. That is, until he notices a tiny note at the bottom of the page._

'And Holmes, in case you ever happen to read this, the answer is most undoubtedly no'

_He never got the full extent of his limits, something he is eternally grateful for. _


End file.
